


Jealousy

by Tormented_Gale



Category: Tales of the Abyss
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 14:38:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6662788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tormented_Gale/pseuds/Tormented_Gale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It flares hotter than the flames of hell and eats away like a poison until it consumes all in its path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jealousy

How could he not see? If it were any more obvious, he would’ve physically tripped over it. Asch was naturally the most thickheaded man that Sync had ever met, however.

Or was it that he refused to see? That, at least, had logical backing. If Sync looked hard, and at every angle, he could see how Asch might be stubborn or stupid enough to refuse to look.

As much as the man may have cursed his life, Sync could only find reason after reason for Asch to be a little more pleased with his lot. Asch had, from the start, family and loved ones and people who believed in him. Yes, he lost that. Yes, Van had destroyed his life and, at the same time, created a new one for him. Asch had everything a normal human being could want – status, prestige, intelligence, respect (or was that better called ‘fear’?), allies, a place to live. He had the safety of this place and of each soldier that still ultimately reported to Van, but at least listened to Asch without having to be told twice.

Sync gritted his teeth as he watched out the window. The practice field was already covered in bruised and wounded men, though none with anything lasting, and at the center of the destruction was Asch with a wild snarl on his face. His dark, crimson hair flashed like the sun itself as he twisted and turned, and Sync found himself wondering what it would feel like between his fingers before he quickly suppressed the thought. Instead, he ground his teeth all the more until he could physically hear them creak.

With a bark of an order, the fallen men righted themselves and bowed their heads to Asch, who dismissed them. They began cleaning up the equipment as Asch sheathed his sword and headed back towards the main complex, looking every bit as frustrated and irritated as he usually did.

“Do you even _know_ real pain?” Sync hissed between his clenched teeth. When Asch moved out of sight, Sync grabbed the curtain and yanked it shut. It didn’t have the same visceral feeling as smashing something, but it would have to do for the moment.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right, either, but first and foremost, it wasn’t fair. Sync stood at the center of his quarters, eyes trained on the cool, rugged floor at his feet, and felt his hands shake with his rage. It was always ‘Asch this’ and ‘Asch that’ with Van, be it an order to shadow the other’s every movement or praise for the general who outranked them all, no matter what else was said. Legretta, Largo, Sync – they all knew. He doubted Dist noticed or Arietta cared.

Sync felt his lips twitch into a grimace of a smile as he stared down at his fingers. These, technically, weren’t even is either. His very body wasn’t his, even if his mind was to an extent, yet even that had been molded, shaped, shattered, and rebuilt to suit Van’s needs. Ultimately Sync was little better than a marionette on a series of strings, dancing to the music of the puppeteer. And Van was a master puppeteer.

He sank to his knees and knelt, closing his eyes and drawing in ragged breaths. With each exhale, he tried to let go of his anger if only to return to a slightly calmer state on the outside, yet the breaths seemed to build up in his lungs like something was blocking their passage. He shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself in a way no one else would ever do. Each hammering beat of his heart echoed in the aftermath of each breath and a scream built up behind the trapped air, desperate to be released.

“Sir!” The knock at the door stopped his panic, slicing through his mind like a knife through his back, and he finally let out a shuddering exhale.

“What?” he snapped through the closed door.

“Commandant Grants is requesting to see you, sir.”

Sync snarled something under his breath, too low for the man through the door to hear, and called back as calmly as he could, “I’ll be right there.”

“Yes, sir!”

The footsteps faded, leaving Sync with his thoughts and his raging emotions always simmering too high beneath the façade he managed. He groped for his mask as he practically threw himself at his desk, and only stood once it was firmly in hand. He shakily raised it over his eyes and ducked his head low. Hiding beneath it would only serve to help while he was speaking with Van – he didn’t need to show anything beyond his presence anyway.

Of course, walking into Van’s office proved that, in reality, fate and whatever other gods existed were completely and utterly against Sync. He almost laughed, feeling his lips tug up into a slit of a smile and an edge of hysteria. Asch didn’t bother looking behind him to see who else had entered, the arrogant bastard. Breathing evenly would keep him here and now, in the moment, but if Asch so much as said a foolish word, he might lose it then and there.

“Good, you’ve arrived,” Van commented and motioned for Sync to stand at Asch’s side. As Sync slid into place like the missing puzzle piece, Van continued, “I have a mission for the two of you. You are to…”

It turned out, Van liked sending the two of them on missions together. Sync sometimes wondered if it was a punishment for some slight he had caused, but Van always insisted it was because Sync could be trusted, where Asch could not. Sync took no comfort in that.

He fought beside Asch, the two of them shadows of pasts neither could speak of and would only grow angry thinking about. They were actually quite fluid together; where Asch was brutal and swift with his large sword, Sync was calculating and quick in a way that Asch would never be able to match. Each and every mission they had was a success and they worked together most of the time without a word beyond combat strategy – Asch at least appeared to begrudgingly respect Sync enough to accept said advice.

For his part, Sync did nothing to encourage Asch to speak to him. Every moment spent in his presence was agonizing, drawing on old hurts and wounds that never closed. Sync jealously glared at every opportunity at Asch’s turned back, only to hide his eyes once more should Asch glance at him. It wasn’t right, this stupid heaviness that Asch carried with him. He had _no right_.

“Why do you hate me so much?”

The question came out of the blue one day, spoken in that same deep tone and lack of emotion that most of Asch’s words came in when they weren’t being spat. Sync didn’t look at the other God General, refusing to acknowledge that he had even spoken, until Asch was standing in front of him and towering over him and he felt himself shrink back instinctively. He stopped himself the moment he noticed he was doing it.

“What?” Sync asked, trying to keep his own young voice level.

_Nothing about him is fair._

“Why do you hate me?” Asch repeated, staring down at Sync with the same contempt he shared for all replicas. Of course the bastard knew what Sync was; all the God Generals did.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Sync blurted out instead of the coyly thrown ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he’d been planning on saying. His jaw clenched as Asch’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“So you do.” _Creak_. There went his teeth again, grinding mercilessly against each other. Asch turned away and started walking, only to have Sync dart forward and stand in his way.

“What do you care?” Sync asked, words spilling from his lips like a waterfall, no end in sight. “You, who have a chance at living a semi-normal life and people who actually give a damn about if you’re alive or not? What would you know of pain? Of suffering?”

Asch moved so quickly that Sync had no chance to dart away. He grabbed Sync and slammed him against the nearby alley wall, trapping him with an arm to his throat. Sync grinned, maddeningly, knowing it would only further anger the other God General. Asch’s temper was legendary, after all.

“You don’t know _anything_ ,” Asch snarled in his face, vein bulging in his forehead. Sync gave him a conciliatory smirk.

“I don’t? I know that you have a family, and people who care, and friends and – ” Sync choked, gasping around the arm that pressed that much harder against his throat. His vision darkened at the edges but he never lost his smirk.

“I _had_ ,” Asch hissed. “I had a family, friends, a _life_ , before replication. Before my life was taken out of my own hands.” He jostled Sync, smacking the back of his head into the wall though it lacked much force. “You don’t know a damn thing aside from what Van has told you, and you don’t care to think about it any further than that.”

 _That_ unexpectedly stung. Sync considered himself an observant individual, if nothing else, but what point was there when Van had no reason to lie?

Suddenly Sync slid down the wall and landed hard on his rump, gasping and eyes watering. Asch once again towered over him, glaring down like some red haired god from on high, and spat, “Come up with an actual reason to hate me, not this jealous bullshit.”

Sync tried to get up, to go after Asch and ring his neck, but even standing sounded like too much of an effort at the moment. His eyes slid shut as each painful breath filled his lungs and left. Asch didn’t know what real pain was like. He _didn’t_. The princess, the blond, even his damn _replica_ , stared at Asch with longing and want and care and everything Sync thought should come from a friend, even if Sync himself had never had one in his life. 

He trudged back home, feeling empty and alone and, beneath it, simmered anger and fear and hatred.

Weeks later, Asch betrayed them.

Weeks later, Sync found himself smiling.

It was an ugly, nasty thing, complete with dimples and crinkling at the eyes, and perhaps on another’s face it would have been nice or welcoming. On his, it was as poisonous as a snake’s venom, and he couldn’t stop from wearing it just like he couldn’t stop wearing his mask. 

Asch was choosing yet another path and didn’t care who got in his way or what he left behind. He would carve it with blood and sacrifice and so many things Sync was still convinced Asch didn’t know the truth of. He hadn’t felt his skin being seared off with every gasping inhale of burning breath. He didn’t watch as those who matched him down to the slight wrinkles in their skin get pushed into the gaping maw of a monster that could never be satiated. Asch had no idea what it was like to really feel loss or pain, not truly.

At his desk, Sync stared down at his stolen prize and hesitated yet again to open it. On the cover of it was Asch’s full, real name – “fon Fabre, Luke” – and the word “Confidential” in red ink stamped beneath it. He had stolen it from Dist’s personal records without a word.

He had to be sure.

He _knew_ he was, but…

He had to be sure.

Flipping back the front, tan cover, Sync stared down at the information. Basics, he realized – height, weight, age, nationality, hometown, family members – but not basics for an adult. These were the measurements and life details of a child, no older than seven. He stared down at the little numbers and penned words and swallowed something that felt a little like guilt and a lot like illness back.

Each page brought new insight, new information. He found himself meeting ghosts of Asch’s past who were still alive, yet to the God General must have been dead. Faces and names, numbers and information, friends and acquaintances, Van’s work, every bit of it. He covered his mouth with a hand he could tell was shaking and felt bile rise in his throat.

No. None of this could be what actually happened. Asch was a bastard, a man who selfishly held to the belief that he was better than the rest of them and that he deserved more pity or help or joy or hope than the rest because he had been abandoned and lost and re-found and then tossed to the winds of fate decided by Van. 

Sync slammed the file shut, shoved himself away from his desk, and fled his room, but no matter how much distance he put between himself and the picture of a grubby-faced boy in a uniform he wasn’t quite big enough to fill, he couldn’t seem to stop seeing it.

– – – – –

A shadow again, Sync found himself with the perfect opportunity. A throwing knife in one hand, carefully threaded into pale fingers, would be more than enough, especially with the element of surprise. Asch had no idea that he was even there, what with the redhead’s back being to him and the man completely oblivious, and wouldn’t figure it out until it was too late. It would be easy, quick, and Sync would never have to see Asch again.

He began to move forward when he heard footsteps and quickly retreated into the darkness of a nearby building, cursing at himself. He’d waited too long and now was missing his opportunity. Stupid! He knew better! He knew to move when the opportunity presented itself, yet here he was, standing there like an idiot. He bit his lip to keep quiet and watched as a familiar blond girl made her way to join Asch at the balcony overlooking the water. Sync closed his eyes, feeling the familiar poison, so long a friend and ally, spread through his veins and make his heart race with fury.

It was… _cute_ , or so he would have spat. These two, dancing around each other like no one could tell from the outside how much she lov- … she cared for him, and how much he had wished his life hadn’t been a series of events that he had had no control over. Sync had come to terms with that, at least – the fact was that Asch had been through some things, but he still couldn’t know true suffering, not with people still there to build him back from the ground up.

Sync froze, however, and felt his knees shake as Asch began to speak.

“Someday, when we’re grown up, let’s change this country. Change it so that no one has to be poor. Change it so that war never happens.” Calm, collected, more emotion-filled than anything Asch had ever said to any God General, before or after his fury.

“Let’s work to change our country. For the rest of our lives. Together.” The princess’s hands tightened just a little on the railing in front of her, like she was trying to stop herself from reaching out to the man beside her.

“I didn’t say that because you’re a princess. Your birth doesn’t matter. Just do what you can.”

Still so… kind, generous, even. He didn’t look at her, didn’t say anything further, but a single word burned in Sync’s mind like the fiery depths of Zaleho never had the chance to.

_Hypocrite!_

He wanted to throw those words back in Asch’s face. ‘Your birth doesn’t matter’, eh? So did that only apply to princesses who Asch was in love with, or was It because Asch hated everyone and everything with that same passion, especially if it was a replica? They were dirt in the redhead’s eyes – no, perhaps _less_ than dirt. At least dirt served a purpose beneath Asch’s foot. At least from dirt could grow life and joy.

Sync shoved his knuckles into his mouth and screamed around them, the sound just muffled enough to prevent it from calling the guard over. Green light danced over his skin, pricking at his eyes and tasting like power and false promises on his tongue. The glyph on his chest burned with the energy of a Fon Master, the same energy that lived inside of him in all its lackluster glory.

Eyes burning with unshed tears and pain, Sync fled from the area, heart pounding and demanding retribution for the slights Asch had forced upon him. Those light green eyes had never turned to Sync and softened; they were as hard as malachite, as cold as ice, no matter Asch’s actual mood or feeling. He didn’t care for any of them, and his hatred of Van was matched only by his twisted affection for the man.

There had never been anything but vitriol on Asch’s tongue for Sync, and to hear words, gentle and kind and everything not Asch, spill from those red, chapped lips – 

Sync bit his knuckles hard enough to make them bleed, and retreated to the inn room without a glance around him where he could be alone and rage and hurt in peace.

– – – – –

It hurt far more than he thought it would to find out Asch was dead. No, perhaps ‘hurt’ wasn’t the right way to put it. Sync was furious, and his heart – the little black hole in his chest – felt torn and shredded more than usual. He stared down at the blonde’s tear-filled face, her lips trembling, and the replica standing near her, his own face pale and light green eyes too damn familiar. Sync sneered down at them from his place at the top of the stairs, body glowing with power that he didn’t truly own and didn’t care to take as his. Everything about him was borrowed, after all. Like the Luke look-alike in front of him.

“About time,” he chuckled, and ignored the narrowing of eyes, the look of utter shock on Natalia’s face, the outrage on Luke’s. “Bastard got what was coming to him.”

“How dare you!” Natalia screeched, her voice cracking with her tears, and Sync took a step down, as if deigning himself to speak with them.

“Asch was too much a fool to see the truth of everything, and too damn selfish to admit it.”

“And you’re different?” Luke demanded.

Sync graced him with a wide smile. Light shot skyward, green and yellow and black, like a nasty bruise, corrupt and hated just as much as the owner. Below him, he saw them take a cautious step backwards, and his smile only widened until it looked like it might split his face.

He remembered screaming at them, vaguely, like a dream, and them trying to convince him of some kind of worth (stupid, pointless). He remembered a blade driving through his shoulder while his boot slammed into someone’s side and broke something important beneath flesh. He remembered tasting blood and never losing his smile, or the hatred that burned so brightly.

He let his jealousy guide him, his desperation for some kind of acceptance or connection – something beyond his pointless creation. Something to give him a reason to keep going beyond Van’s orders and his own pathetic will to live. Something that Asch had had in _spades_ and didn’t – or couldn’t – see. These people all deserved to feel the same pain he felt with every breath and every waking moment. The world deserved to burn.

And when he fell, Guy’s blade sliding neatly into his side and ripping a hole in it, he laughed and coughed and laughed harder. He spat blood upon those pristine white stairs, felt it the moment his body began to come apart, and laughed until his vision darkened and his blood stained everything. He watched, like a spirit without a body, as the host of people fought onward, towards Van, who would no doubt murder them all and be done with this stupid joke.

Though he should have finished falling apart, Sync merely forced himself to his translucent legs and stumbled down the stairs. Falling on his face hurt, but so did every single intake of air and step forward, so it was just another wound to add to the myriad of others. He followed a trail he didn’t even know he knew until he was already on it, feet guiding him downwards until he came to a large, open room supported by enormous pillars.

There, lying at the bottom of one, was the cause of all his pain and all his jealousy, dead in a pool of his own blood.

It was surreal to see a man who had stood as proud and haughty (and full of self-hatred as Sync) simply lying there, no more than a man and no less than what his friends must have seen as a hero.

“Pathetic,” Sync murmured, blood dripping down from the corner of his mouth. His hand was barely doing a good enough job of holding his side together for him to stumble, but stumble he did. He fell to his knees at Asch’s side and stared at those closed eyes, the bloodless skin.

Maybe it was the pain. Maybe it was the knowledge that he had refused to accept as truth. Maybe it was a stupid child reaching through the broken boy. 

Sync raised a hand and rubbed some of the blood from Asch’s cheek, watching as it sprinkled like sand onto the black uniform. Already dry, though the liquid he was kneeling in wasn’t, and Sync watched as the bloody puddle grew with his added contribution. He turned his head to regard Asch, to see the hand he still had on Asch’s cheek, fingers pressed there perhaps in desperation or in confusion or want so wrongly felt.

“You’re such a hypocrite,” Sync wheezed, and found he could see Asch’s face through his fingers. He collapsed and crawled as best he could to lean his head against Asch’s broken shoulder. The body still had a little heat to it, though not much, and Sync wondered what it would have felt like to have Asch’s hand touching his in anything but anger or necessity.

He closed his eyes. Beside him, Asch remained completely still, body slumped slightly, lips bloodied and face bloodless and nothing more than the shell that had contained the general.

“Why?” Sync whispered and choked on his breath. “Why did you ignore it? Why did you not want to see it? You _fool_. To gi-give up… on…”

Another wheeze, another gasp, and his body shuddered. His fingers were gone, he vaguely noticed, little more than fonic dust in the world. Each piece of him dissipated just as it had formed and he smiled at nothing, that same broken smile, for a world that didn’t deserve it or want him around.

Then Asch’s body moved at his side, and Sync saw only a white, pure light engulf Asch and start to pull him upwards, and away. Sync instinctively reached out, and found only his torso left, his mouth full of cotton, his mind slipping away. He heaved a soft, little chuckle, and closed his eyes the rest of the way, forcing away tears and pain and that same poisoning jealousy.

“Even now,” he chuckled, what remained of his body sliding until his head was pillowed by the cold stone floor and Asch’s blood. “Even now, they… they still reach f-for… y-…”

Sync closed his eyes, gave into the darkness, and felt his fonons dissipate from his neck, his ears, falling apart like so much sand through fingers, until finally, there was nothing left but a large, crimson puddle, and the choked laughter of someone who wished they’d never existed.


End file.
